


snowfall

by remy (iamremy)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Episode: s08e06 The Iron Throne, Forehead Kisses, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Jon has nightmares, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season/Series 08 Spoilers, Tormund is there, anyway, but mentioned only in passing, episode coda, if you are a jonerys fan this is probably not the fic for you, v v important!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 01:57:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19219267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamremy/pseuds/remy
Summary: Jon and Tormund have known each other through battles fought and wars won. Now, at the end of everything, it's time to know each other through peace, and forgiveness, and new beginnings.





	snowfall

**Author's Note:**

> i have been working on this since the finale aired, and now it's finally complete! yay! also look how original my title is, i'm so creative wow
> 
> i can't believe jon and tormund married and eloped to the north with their wolf son and the free folk. top tier ending, folks, if i do say so myself. like placing a beautiful cherry on top of the shit pudding that was this season, but hey, at least we got the fuckin cherry.
> 
> special thanks to the jonmund discord squad, who provided many hours of discussion, laughs, and wonderful ship talk, not to mention encouragement. you people are the literal best and i am so glad i found you!
> 
> this is unbeta'd, and it's like half past four in the morning, so please ignore any mistakes i may have missed.

The sight of Castle Black is relieving in its familiarity, but it’s not until Jon sees Tormund’s face that he feels he can finally breathe. There he is, standing on the landing and watching Jon approach, not smiling nor frowning, and he looks so painfully real that Jon wants to jump right off his horse and run to him. And to Ghost, watchful and silent as always.

Instead he restrains himself, does not move until the horse comes to a halt. He climbs down, his movements slow, as if by taking his time he can delay it all, delay the moment he looks up in Tormund’s eyes and finds reproach, finds horror and disgust and disappointment. It’s no less than what he deserves, he knows, but that does not mean it will not wound him.

And yet that’s not what happens, and maybe Jon should have expected this. After all, this is  _ Tormund _ , and he knows Jon like no one else does, and so the kindness and joy in his eyes at the sight of Jon should not be such a surprise. It should not take him aback, make him flounder, thoughts coming to a halt when Tormund gives him a smile.

'I told you it wasn’t farewell,' he greets.

'Yes,' Jon says. 'You did.' And then, before he can summon the will to restrain himself, he moves forward and buries his face in Tormund’s chest, closing his eyes against the sudden emotion threatening to well up in them.

Immediately Tormund’s arms wrap around him, and Jon wants to let himself go, let someone else carry him and the weight of his guilt for once, but finds he can’t, not just now, not just yet. Not when it’s still so raw, when it’s still his to shoulder. So instead he just fists his gloved hands in Tormund’s fur and hopes his desperate grip conveys all the words he can’t quite bring himself to say.

And perhaps it does - a second later, Tormund’s large hands are framing his face, tilting it upwards, and then Tormund presses his lips to Jon’s forehead in a tender gesture that Jon never would have expected from him. 'Welcome home, little crow,' he says, voice low so that Jon is the only one who hears.

Jon attempts to smile at him, but does not quite manage. Whatever it is that shows on his face, it makes Tormund grimace. 'Let’s go inside,' he says, 'get you warm and rested. Come on.'

Jon nods, grateful for the opportunity to have some privacy, away from the curious eyes of the men who’d accompanied him and the free folk scattered around the place. He half-expects Ghost to follow the two of them inside, but the wolf remains where he is, though his eyes never leave Jon.

 

Neither Jon nor Tormund speak again until they’re alone in the Lord Commander’s chambers with the door closed, seated next to each other in chairs and facing the fire that was already blazing and filling the room with warmth. The men who arrived with Jon are setting up in the barracks for some rest, while the free folk go about their day as usual, having gotten over the excitement of Jon’s arrival rather quickly. Almost as if, to them, it was a foregone conclusion, like Jon was always going to end up here, with them.  


'So it’s all over, then,' says Tormund, eventually, turning his head sideways to look at Jon.

Jon doesn’t look away from the fire. 'Yes,' he says shortly. 'It is.'

'Your sister sent a raven,' Tormund says when it’s clear Jon is done speaking. 'She told us what happened.'

'She’s not my sister,' Jon corrects tonelessly.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Tormund shrug. 'Her father raised you. ‘S far’s I know, her father’s your father, and that makes her your sister. Why should anything change that?'

Jon exhales slowly. 'It’s not like that, over there,' he says. 'Things aren’t as simple as you make them sound.'

Tormund makes a contemplative sound in that back of his throat. 'No, they are,' he disagrees. 'You Southerners just enjoy complicating things.'

'I’m not a Southerner,' Jon says, so rankled he turns to face Tormund.

The wildling just grins at him. 'No, I reckon you’re not.'

'You make no sense,' huffs Jon, turning back to the fire. Then he blinks, startled - for a moment he thought he smelled burning flesh, and heard screaming.

Tormund notices. Of course he does. 'Have you gotten any rest at all, little crow?' he asks, and his voice is surprisingly gentle.

Jon shrugs. 'Some.' It’s not really an answer.

'Well, get some more now,' Tormund says after a few moments. He hasn’t taken his eyes off Jon since the moment Jon’s arrived, even though Jon hasn’t made eye contact for longer than a collective three seconds. 'Whatever else you want to do, we can talk about it later. And stop staring at the fire,' he adds.

With great effort Jon tears his eyes away and turns his head to look at Tormund, though he keeps the fireplace carefully situated at the edge of his peripheral vision. 'I can’t,' he admits. 'I can’t not look, because if I do, then maybe… maybe everything burns down again.'

Tormund’s expression softens further. It’s a look Jon’s not used to seeing on him. 'That’s all over now, Jon,' he says. The uncharacteristic use of his first name does not escape Jon either. 'You can look away. You can rest.'

'But-' begins Jon.

'Besides, this is the  _ North _ ,' Tormund reminds him. 'Ice and snow always wins here. You know that.'

Yes. Yes he does. He knows that.

All the fight drains from Jon and he slumps into Tormund’s side, exhausted. Now that he’s not looking at the fire, now that his eyes are closed and he’s somewhere familiar, in the company of someone he trusts completely, it’s all catching up to him - what she did, what  _ he _ did, the pain and misery and guilt that followed, the nagging doubt that he’d been wrong, that he’d committed a sin he could never take back.

'I’m so tired,' he murmurs.

Tormund shifts, and rests a heavy arm across Jon’s shoulders, pressing him further into his side. 'I know, little crow.'

'And it’s all too much,' Jon admits, almost getting a mouthful of Tormund’s furs in the process. 'Everything is just…  _ too much _ .'

'Because you haven’t slept,' Tormund tells him, patting his head with the hand that was hanging from his shoulders. 'Everything’s worse when you’re tired.'

'I don’t know that I can rest,' Jon says heavily. 'I don’t know that I deserve to,' he corrects a moment later.

'Horseshit,' declares Tormund. 'You of all people deserve it. After everything you’ve done.'

'After everything I’ve done,' echoes Jon, opening his eyes to look up at Tormund’s face. 'You believe that, Tormund?'

'Aye,' says the wildling firmly. 'I do. And I know you don’t, not now,' he adds. 'But you will.'

'You sound very sure,' Jon says, grinning tiredly.

Tormund returns the grin, and pats Jon’s head one more time. 'I am,' he says, and then his arm is sliding off Jon’s shoulders as he stands. Immediately Jon misses the warmth and weight of it, but before he can say anything, Tormund grabs his arm and pulls him to his feet. 'Bed,' he orders. 'Sleep as long as you like. I’ll send your wolf in, too.'

Jon nods, knowing a lost cause when he sees one. He’s been seeing many lately. 'All right, all right,' he says, beginning to take off his furs and sling them over the back of the chair he’d been sitting on. 'Bed. And you?'

Tormund shrugs. 'I’ll find somethin’ to do.'

Jon hesitates with one knee on the mattress, paused halfway through the motion of getting into bed. 'Can you-'

He stops himself. It’s too much to ask. And he knows he doesn’t deserve it, doesn’t deserve the warmth and comfort of another human being nearby, not after what he’s done. Not after all the blood on his hands.

'‘Course I’ll stay,' Tormund says, though, and that surprises Jon.

'How did you know what I was going to ask?'

Tormund scoffs. 'I know you, Snow. And I know that look on your face. You don’t want to be alone right now.'

A little reluctantly, Jon nods. 'I don’t,' he says, and gets into the bed. 'But you don’t have to - I mean, Ghost should be fine, I’ll just-'

'Shut up,' says Tormund, and the look on his face is fond. 'I’ll get your wolf. And I’ll stay too. I’d like to see the man or woman that thinks they can make me move. And that includes you, little crow,' he adds.

'Message received,' Jon says, throwing his hands up in surrender. Tormund grins at him, before moving to the door and unlocking it. He sticks his head outside and wolf-whistles.

Not even a minute later, Ghost enters the chambers, silent as ever, red eyes trained on Jon. He doesn’t stop moving, not until he reaches Jon’s bed, and then looks up at him expectantly. Jon huffs in something akin to amusement, and reaches out to pet Ghost’s head. 'Come on, then,' he murmurs, moving aside on the bed.

Ghost looks at him for just a second longer, and then climbs silently into the bed and settles next to him. He takes up more than half of the bed despite being curled up as small as he can make himself comfortably, and with a jolt Jon realizes how much he’s missed this - this familiar room and his old bed and his wolf next to him, solid and strong and reliable, always faithful no matter what. On a whim he turns to his side and buries his face in the fur of Ghost’s neck, and takes a few deep breaths to center himself.

'Sleep,' Tormund says from somewhere behind him, and Jon hears a chair creak as Tormund sits in it. 'I’ll keep watch.'

So Jon does.

 

It is surprisingly easy to fall back into the routine of the Night’s Watch, despite the fact that Jon is its sole member now. There are no wights to protect against and the free folk haven’t been a threat for years now, and so the Wall - and consequently the Watch - truly is redundant. And yet Jon walks the top of it at least once everyday, stopping only when he reaches the part of it that was destroyed by Viserion. There he stops, and he looks out over both sides, and he tries to shake off the feeling that he’s hanging in limbo, a sense of being incomplete that he cannot understand or shake off.

Ghost always accompanies him on these walks, and sometimes Tormund does as well. They don’t speak, usually, just walk in silence, but it’s never uncomfortable. On the contrary, Jon’s grateful for the company, silent though it may be, because it helps to feel like he’s not alone. They spend hours and hours up there, just walking up and down, or standing still and looking out down below - there is nothing else to do, after all, but pass the time somehow. Besides, he always feels lighter up here. It’s too cold for him to be able to dwell on fire for too long. 

It is on one of these walks that Tormund breaks tradition and speaks. ‘Jon,’ he says.

Jon stops in his tracks and turns to face Tormund. ‘Yes,’ he says, a little apprehensive though he does not know why.

‘The storms,’ Tormund says. ‘The winter storms. There is one coming.’

‘Yes,’ Jon repeats. He knows this.

‘It’ll be the last one,’ Tormund tells him.

Oh.

‘So you’ll be leaving, then,’ Jon says, and ignores the pang he feels at the thought. ‘When it’s over.’

Tormund nods wordlessly.

‘Right,’ says Jon, and looks away. ‘How long?’

Tormund turns away too, and looks out over the North. ‘Couple weeks, it looks like. We’ve been ready to go a while now.’

Jon knows this too. He has seen the free folk get more and more restless with every day that passes by and they remain in Castle Black. This is not natural for them, being confined to one place like this. They were in Winterfell because they’d had to be, but now that they’re faced with the prospect of finally being able to return to their true home, Jon knows that they can barely wait.

He cannot fault them for it, either, not when he yearns for home just as much as they do. It’s just that he’s no longer sure where that is, for him. It had been Winterfell, long ago, and then Castle Black, and then Winterfell again. And now Castle Black again, it seems - but he has not been able to shake off that bone-deep discomfort, that voice in his head that tells him he doesn’t belong here either.

‘I’ll be sad to see you go,’ he says in the end.

Tormund turns around so fast his furs whirl around him, an expression of exasperation on his face. ‘You fucking idiot,’ he says.

Jon blinks. That’s a bit harsh, and unexpectedly so. As far as he knows, he hasn’t said anything particularly provocative. ‘What-’

‘You’re coming with us,’ Tormund interrupts.

‘I - what?’ Jon is aware he sounds incredibly stupid, but is too taken aback to care.

‘I said, you’re coming with us,’ Tormund repeats, and then grins. ‘Didn’t think I was going to leave you here all alone, did you?’

That  _ was  _ what he’d thought, but going by the slightly manic look in Tormund’s eyes, Jon feels it would probably be wise to keep that to himself. Instead, he says, ‘But my punishment-’

‘Fuck your punishment,’ interrupts Tormund.

Jon tries again. ‘I’ve got a duty to-’

‘Fuck your duty, too,’ says Tormund fiercely. ‘And what duty, anyway?’ he demands before Jon can really respond. ‘To  _ whom _ ? The fuckers that turned their backs on you after you saved their bloody ungrateful arses? Them fancy lords in their castles who  _ still  _ look down on you for your birth? Those self-righteous cunts who think they can look down on you for doing the right thing while they shat their pants and cried for someone to save them? Fucking  _ cowards, _ the lot of them.’ Tormund spits at his feet. ‘Fuck them all,’ he declares vehemently.

The look in his eyes has hardened, and he looks genuinely angry. Instinctively Jon tenses up, hands curling into fists, as his mind runs through all the way he knows of calming someone down within the space of two seconds. He racks his brain, searching for words that might placate Tormund-

‘Fuck,’ says Tormund heavily, and Jon’s head snaps back up to look at him. ‘Fuck, Jon, I didn’t mean-’

‘It’s all right,’ Jon says, though his heart is racing and he doesn’t understand why. Tormund will never hurt him, he knows that. Never. And it’s not him that Tormund is angry at. And he’s seen him angry before and has never reacted like that. Something about the whole situation just has him entirely on edge, like that old feeling he used to get just before a battle, knowing his options were to fight or flee, knowing the only  _ real _ option was to fight. 

‘No it’s not,’ says Tormund regretfully. ‘It really is not.’ He raises an arm and slowly extends it towards Jon. ‘Can I-?’

Jon nods, too overwhelmed by the rush of sound inside his head to speak. 

Now that he’s been granted permission, Tormund surges forward and wraps both arms around Jon in an embrace so tight it almost knocks the breath from his lungs. They have not done this since Jon’s arrival, and Jon is hit hard with the realisation that he has, somehow, missed this. Tormund’s grip on him is tight but not unyielding, and instead of feeling panic at being boxed in like this, Jon feels oddly safe. Protected. From what, he’s not sure, but the feeling is there all the same. 

‘Come with us,’ Tormund whispers into Jon’s hair. ‘With me. You belong in the North, little crow. There is nothing for you down here.’

‘And what is there for me up there?’ asks Jon, voice slightly muffled due to Tormund’s furs pressed against his face. 

‘A home,’ Tormund tells him. 

Jon exhales slowly and lets his eyes fall closed, lets his body relax against Tormund’s. ‘A home,’ he repeats. ‘I think… I think I’d like that.’

 

‘I should write to Sansa,’ Jon says suddenly, halfway through his dinner. ‘Tell her I’m going.’

‘No raven is going to go anywhere in this storm,’ Tormund answers, not pausing in his chewing. 

‘Well, yes, I know. I meant after,’ Jon tells him. 

Tormund puts down the chicken wing he’s picked clean. ‘You had a chance to write her earlier, before the storm. You didn’t.’

‘I should have,’ Jon says. It’s been two weeks since he decided to go; he’s had plenty of time to write her. 

‘So why didn’t you?’ Tormund asks, picking up the other wing and tossing it to Ghost, who’s sitting by their feet, half under the table. 

‘I don’t know,’ Jon says slowly, thinking it over. ‘Perhaps - perhaps I was afraid of her trying to stop me.’

‘Would she, though?’ questions Tormund. 

The conversation pauses before Jon can really reply, thanks to a group of around seven or eight children. They are giggling as they approach the table where Tormund and Jon are seated, and the biggest of them, a towheaded boy no older than ten or eleven, steps forward bravely. ‘Can we play with your wolf?’ he asks. 

‘He’s not a pet,’ begins Jon, but is interrupted by Tormund snorting. 

‘These aren’t Southern children, little crow, you don’t need to coddle them,’ he says. ‘They know what a direwolf is.’

Jon hesitates, but all doubts are expelled from his mind when Ghost gets to his feet, blinking interestedly at the chicken leg in the towheaded boy’s hand. The boy, sensing the wolf’s curiosity, holds it out to him, not looking even a little afraid. Jon watches, fascinated, as Ghost gives the proffered meat an experimental sniff, and then takes it gently from the boy’s grip. 

‘Told you,’ says Tormund smugly. 

‘So you did,’ murmurs Jon, watching the towheaded boy feed Ghost. The other children seem to draw courage from his bravery, and the fact that his hand is still attached to his arm, and soon enough they’re close enough to touch Ghost. ‘Don’t crowd him,’ Jon tells them. ‘He doesn’t like it.’

They all take a few steps back immediately, except for the towheaded boy. ‘What’s his name?’ he asks. 

‘Ghost,’ Jon tells him. 

‘Because of his colour?’ the boy asks. 

Jon nods. ‘And his silence.’

‘Can I touch him?’ asks a small girl from the back of the group. 

‘Not when he’s eating,’ answers Jon gently. 

‘But Alf is doing it!’ she protests, and suddenly she reminds Jon so intensely of Arya at that age that it’s a little painful. 

‘Alf is feeding him, so Ghost doesn’t mind it,’ he explains to the girl, and then, on a whim, gives her a smile. ‘You can play with him after he’s done eating.’

‘Can I ride him?’ she asks hopefully. 

Jon has to laugh at that. ‘No, he’s not a horse,’ he tells her. 

She looks disappointed, but only for a second or so. A moment later she’s turning to the boy next to her and whispering something in his ear, and then both of them turn to look conspiratorially over at Alf, who is so engaged with Ghost that he is blissfully oblivious to everything else. 

‘No funny stuff,’ Jon tells them firmly before they can do anything. 

‘We didn’t do anything!’ the girl protests. 

‘Yet,’ says Jon. 

The girl makes a face, but the boy looks relieved, as if glad he won’t have to go along with whatever she’d planned. She reminds Jon more and more of his youngest sister with each passing second, and with a bittersweet pang he wonders where she is now. 

‘You’re good with ‘em,’ Tormund observes, and Jon blinks at him. ‘The young ones,’ Tormund clarifies. 

‘Had a lot of practice,’ Jon tells him with a little sad smile. ‘My brother Robb and I, we used to look after our siblings, make sure they didn’t get into too much trouble. Well, Arya did anyway, but we tried our best.’

Tormund returns the smile. ‘You miss them.’

‘So much,’ Jon admits. ‘Especially Robb and Rickon. The others aren’t with me but at least I know they’re all right. But Robb and Rickon… they’re gone. I’ll never see them or talk to them again.’

Tormund’s bootclad foot knocks against Jon’s under the table and then stays there, a solid weight against his calf that is surprisingly comforting. He watches Jon for a moment or so, expression a little pensive, and then says firmly, ‘Write her. Your sister. She won’t stop you from leaving, and she’ll be glad to know where you are. She’ll worry otherwise.’

‘But you said the storm - the ravens won’t-’

‘The storm will end at some point,’ Tormund says. ‘They all do. Write to her.’

Jon opens his mouth with the intention of arguing some more, but shuts it almost immediately when he realises Tormund is right. ‘All right,’ he concedes. ‘I’ll send a raven out the moment it’s safe to do so.’

Tormund nods approvingly. ‘You do that.’

 

The storm, true to Tormund’s words, begins winding down about a week and a half after Jon decides to write to Sansa. The wind howling around Castle Black calms down some, and the sky is no longer obscured by blizzards. Even the snowfall decreases, slowly but steadily.

The free folk mark this occasion by doubling up on their packing and preparations. Everywhere that Jon goes in the barracks he sees people gathering up their belongings in one place and sorting them out, while the more skilled of them work on repairing clothes and furs and boots and weapons. Ghost seems to be growing as restless as the humans are, too - more often than not he leaves Jon’s side to go run through the snow or wander off in search of something,  _ anything _ , to hunt, though Jon supposes he must know that at this time of the year it must be only slim pickings.

‘He doesn’t belong here,’ Tormund tells Jon one day as they stand at the railing of the barracks and watch Ghost vanish into the whiteness beyond the Wall. ‘No more’n you do.’

‘He was born in the North,’ Jon replies, fingers tapping restlessly against the carved hilt of his sword. ‘I was not.’

Tormund scoffs. ‘Who gives a fuck where you were born? It’s got nothing to do with anything.’

‘That’s not what I heard, growing up,’ Jon says.

‘You heard a lot of shit growing up that wasn’t true,’ Tormund says, and puts his hood up against the flurry of snowflakes brought in by the wind. ‘That’s because Southerners put a lot of stock in unimportant horseshit and don’t give nearly enough fucks about what’s really important.’

‘Such as?’ inquires Jon, and draws his furs tighter around himself against the wind. The storm might be winding down, but it is still freezing out here, more so than usual.

Tormund shrugs. ‘Such as judging a person on their actions and not their birth. Such as loving someone despite who they are and where they’re from. Such as honour,  _ real _ honour. The kind your father had and passed down to you and your brothers and sisters.’

‘The kind that got Father and Robb killed,’ Jon says after a moment, hands curling inadvertently into fists. He would like to be the kind of person who eventually let go of things, but all of his focusing on the greater good and the bigger picture didn’t mean shit when it came to his family. He had gotten in bed with a lot of questionable people for the sake of the great war, and he had learned to let go of a lot of old enmities and grudges for the same. But the one thing that had never changed despite all of that - and perhaps never would, no matter how many Tyrions and Jaimes he came to know - was this: if he could bring back the Lannisters and execute them all himself for what they did to his father and brother, he would. Without a second thought, he would.

‘Aye,’ says Tormund solemnly in the end. ‘We don’t do well in the South, us Northerners. We don’t think like them or see things the way they do.’

‘No,’ Jon says bitterly, ‘we don’t.’

Tormund watches him quietly for a few moments, and then says, ‘Come, let’s go inside. Ghost will be back when he tires himself out.’

‘I’m fine out here,’ Jon says immediately, which is a lie - he’s beginning to shiver under his clothes.

‘I wasn’t asking,’ Tormund tells him, grabbing his arm. ‘Your name might be Snow but you’re still human, and a rather small one at that. Inside.’

‘I’m not small!’ Jon protests even as he lets himself be marched along.

Tormund grins at him, showing his teeth. ‘Yes you are, little crow. Fierce, yes, and strong, but not exactly on the larger side.’

‘I’m normal, you’re the one who’s oversized,’ Jon grumbles.

Tormund laughs at that, a loud, full-bellied sound that startles a nearby child and makes his mother jump as well. ‘That may be so,’ he agrees, opening the door to Jon’s chambers and lightly shoving him inside before following. ‘But you’re small, too.’

‘You’re wrong,’ Jon tells him as he shuts the door, sealing in the warmth of the room.

‘No,’ says Tormund, grinning. ‘No I’m not.’ He takes off his outermost layer and throws it over the back of the nearest chair, before grabbing a flask of wine from the table and uncorking it with his teeth. ‘Want some?’ he asks Jon, who’s putting his furs over another chair in a far more civilised manner. ‘It’ll keep you warm.’

Jon shakes his head. He’s been put off drink for the foreseeable future; it’s hard enough to trust himself when he’s sober, he’s not going to go and test himself by getting drunk, even if it’s only a little. ‘No, thank you,’ he says.

Tormund shrugs. ‘More for me,’ he says, and takes a long drink before shuffling over to one of the chairs in front of the fire and sitting down in it.

Jon takes off Longclaw and sits down in one of the hard chairs at the table, as far as he can be from the fire without freezing his arse off. ‘How come you never get drunk?’ he asks Tormund, putting his elbows on the table and resting his hand on his face as he watches his friend.

‘Tolerance, I suppose,’ Tormund says, and takes another swig. ‘Come join me by the fire, Snow. It’s warm here.’

‘I’m fine here,’ Jon answers.

‘You were close to chattering your teeth off outside, and you still said you were fine,’ Tormund points out. ‘Come here.’

‘I  _ am _ fine, you know,’ Jon says. And he is. He has no wish to go sit that close to the fire, to have to look in it or feel it melt away the cold on his skin.

‘Don’t make me drag you here,’ Tormund threatens from behind the flask of wine. He looks like he means it, too.

‘Tormund,’ sighs Jon.

Tormund half-rises from his chair, looking determined.

‘Fine, fine, I’m coming,’ Jon says hastily, and Tormund sits back down, looking satisfied. He doesn’t want to, he really doesn’t, but the desire not to be manhandled by Tormund is a greater one.

Tormund looks smug when Jon finally sits down in the other chair by the fire. ‘Told you it’s warmer,’ he says.

‘I know it is,’ Jon answers, a little irritably. It’s  _ too _ warm, in fact, and now he’s going to have to be careful not to let the fire out of his sight. He positions himself carefully, so that he can look at Tormund and still have the fireplace right there at the edge of his field of vision.

He’s got Longclaw with him, and he puts it down by his chair, and doesn’t realise that Tormund is watching him until he looks up to see Tormund’s eyes on him. ‘Why the sword?’ he asks.

Jon shrugs. ‘Just… in case,’ he answers vaguely. He really doesn’t know why, just that it makes him feel safer with it by his side, and more prepared. For what, he really does not know.

‘Just in case what?’ Tormund asks.

‘I don’t know,’ Jon mutters, looking away from Tormund’s sharp gaze.

Tormund puts the flask of wine down, and narrows his eyes slightly at Jon. ‘The war’s over, Jon,’ he says.

‘Which one?’ Jon asks with a hollow laugh.

‘All of them,’ Tormund answers simply. ‘So when are you going to stop fighting?’

The question takes Jon a little by surprise. ‘What does that mean?’ he asks.

‘You won’t go anywhere without your sword, not even the dining hall or your bed,’ Tormund tells him. ‘If there’s a fire in the room, you won’t take your eyes off it. And don’t think I haven’t noticed that you don’t sleep much. You won’t even speak to anyone other than me and Ghost.’

Jon opens his mouth to argue. ‘I - the sword, it - look, there’s nothing wrong with being ready at all times, and being careful, and I-’

‘Ready for  _ what _ ?’ Tormund asks. ‘No one will attack you here. The wights are gone. There are no Southerners to beware of, here. And the fires - the fires are small, little crow. Hardly anything to worry about.’

‘I  _ know _ ,’ Jon says, and he sounds a little desperate. He doesn’t know what to say, what words to use to explain himself to Tormund. ‘I know, I do, it’s just…’ He sighs, trailing off, and then steels himself. ‘I can’t put the sword down, Tormund. I don’t know why, but I can’t. And I have to watch the fire, because if I look away-’

‘You know it wasn’t your fault,’ interrupts Tormund. ‘What happened down South, what the Dragon Queen did. It’s not your fault.’

Jon looks up at him, startled. Tormund is looking back at him, determined, though there is a sadness to his eyes that Jon is having trouble looking directly at. ‘Tormund, I-’

‘She was always going to do it,’ Tormund says. ‘And nothing you said or did would have stopped her.’

‘If I’d just tried harder, talked to her more, or loved her more,’ begins Jon miserably, but Tormund’s not having any of it.

‘It still would not have made any difference,’ he says, not unkindly. ‘There was a madness in her eyes, little crow. I saw it the moment I laid eyes on her. We all did. She sat and spoke and laughed with you all, but her mind was always elsewhere. Always on that Iron Chair.’

‘Throne,’ Jon corrects automatically.

‘No matter,’ Tormund says, a little impatient. ‘Jon, my friend, my little crow…’

He reaches out, takes Jon’s hand between both of his larger ones. Jon lets him, too bewildered by the earnestness in his tone to really do much.

‘You did the best you could,’ Tormund finishes, his voice low.

‘It was not enough,’ Jon whispers back, wanting to look away but finding himself unable to. Tormund’s hair looks bright red in the firelight, almost alive; Jon can see the flames dancing in the blue of his eyes.

‘It was enough to protect your people,’ Tormund corrects him. His hands are incredibly warm, and they heat him up more than the fire ever could.

‘My people,’ Jon repeats.

Tormund nods. ‘Crowns and titles don’t matter if you’re dead, little crow. You know that. You gave up yours for your people, and it saved their lives. Not just from the Night King, but from the Dragon Queen. Tell me, Jon, do you really think she would not have burnt your castle to the ground, if she’d felt inclined to?’

Jon bites his lip, considering.

‘You know the answer to that,’ Tormund says. ‘Tell me, Jon, what would she have done if you decided to challenge her for that chair? Tell me, what would she have done if you openly sided with your sisters? Tell me, what would have happened if you told her you didn’t want to be with her anymore?’

Jon can’t say it, though he knows the answer. Saying the words out loud feel like some kind of betrayal, though she’s dead and gone. To her memory, perhaps, but that is one thing that Jon spends a lot of his time avoiding. So instead, he just looks away, away from Tormund, and the fire, and his sword by his side.

‘You know the answer to that,’ Tormund repeats softly, and then a second later, his free hand is under Jon’s chin, gently forcing his head up.

Jon exhales slowly, and closes his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he whispers, choked. He knows the answer, always has, whether consciously or otherwise. The words to her house - to  _ his _ \- ring through his mind, in her voice, strong and firm and brooking no argument.  _ Fire and blood _ . That’s the answer. It was her answer to everything, and it is the answer to all of Tormund’s questions.

Jon is terrified of the day when it will begin looking like an answer to him, as well.

‘That’s not you, though,’ Tormund says, and Jon’s eyes fly open. It’s almost as if Tormund has read his mind. There’s a knowing smile on his face, like perhaps he has, or perhaps by now he knows Jon well enough to be able to read everything written on his face and everything that isn’t, too.

‘It’s not me now,’ Jon says hoarsely. ‘What if it’s me tomorrow, or even the day after? What then, Tormund?’

‘Well, for one, you don’t have three big fucking dragons,’ Tormund points out, so obvious that Jon can’t help the little laugh that escapes him. Tormund smiles a little wider when he hears it, and continues, ‘And for another, you were raised in the North. I meant it when I said you’ve got it in you, Jon. And it’s too damn cold for that fire and blood horseshit to last too long. You’re not a Targargarg, or whatever it is. You’re a Stark, and you’ve got the North running in your veins.’

‘Targaryen,’ Jon says, and grins at the exasperated expression on Tormund’s face.

‘Southerners and their names,’ Tormund mutters, letting go of Jon’s face and hand so he can cross his arms.

‘Targaryens aren’t technically Southerners,’ Jon tells him. ‘They flew over from Valyria centuries ago.’

‘And where the fuck’s that?’ asks Tormund.

‘Essos,’ Jon answers.

‘Right,’ says Tormund after a beat. ‘Don’t know where that is, either.’

Jon laughs. ‘To the East,’ he tells him. ‘You go there by sea. Arya’s been.’

‘She has?’

Jon nods. ‘It’s where she learned… all that stuff she does.’ It’s still strange to him, trying to reconcile the Arya of now with the one he left behind all those years ago, and every time he thinks of her, all alone in a strange place, so far away from home, his heart breaks all over again. It’s a feeling he’s never going to get used to, not when it comes to his brothers and sisters, and not for the first time, he aches to go back to when they all used to be children, when things were simpler and they were all so much happier. He thinks he’d even take Catelyn’s disapproval and thinly-disguised hatred of him again, if it meant his family was whole and unharmed once more.

Some of his sadness must show on his face; Tormund clears his throat loudly, drawing Jon’s attention, and when he’s sure Jon is looking at him, says, ‘So this Essos place. What’s it like?’

Jon shrugs. ‘You’d have to ask Arya,’ he says. ‘I haven’t been. I’ve never been away from Westeros.’

‘Still seen more of it than I have,’ Tormund points out. ‘So tell me about that, then.’

Jon considers. ‘Well, it’s really hot down South,’ he says. ‘Even the lightest clothes I had felt too heavy. And if you think Winterfell smelled, you should have seen King’s Landing. It was…’ he trails off.

‘It was what?’ Tormund prompts, before Jon can lose himself in the memory of dragonfire again.

‘Bad,’ finishes Jon with a grateful smile in Tormund’s direction. ‘Well, bad’s an understatement, really. And Dragonstone was… well, rocky. Weather wasn’t too bad, though.’

Tormund makes a harrumphing sort of sound. ‘Suppose I’m fine up here, then, in the North,’ he says.

‘Definitely the best place to be,’ agrees Jon. ‘Everything’s simpler up here. Quieter, too.’

‘And the air don’t smell,’ Tormund adds.

‘That, too,’ Jon laughs.

‘You’ll like it, the rest of it,’ Tormund says. ‘When you’re seeing it without having to worry about anything.’

‘You think so?’ 

‘Yeah, I do,’ Tormund says, and then gets to his feet. ‘Come on, then. It’s getting late. Bed.’

‘Ghost isn’t back yet,’ Jon points out.

‘He’s no puppy suckling at his mother’s teat,’ Tormund reminds him. ‘He’ll be fine. He’ll come back when he wants to.’

Jon accepts this, though he knows he won’t relax completely until he’s got his wolf by his side. ‘What about you?’ he asks Tormund.

Tormund shrugs. ‘I’ll go check up on the others, see how they’re doing, see if they need anything,’ he says. ‘If you need me, just shout.’

‘Thank you,’ Jon says, ‘but there’ll be no need for that.’

‘Just shout,’ Tormund repeats firmly, looking Jon in the eye and giving him a look rather scarily reminiscent of Lady Catelyn when Robb wasn’t listening to her.

‘I - all right, fine,’ Jon concedes. ‘I won’t need to, but fine.’

Tormund, in response, rolls his eyes. He doesn’t leave the room until he’s made sure Jon has gotten into bed, and only then does he nod a goodbye and shut the door after himself. It doesn’t escape Jon’s notice that by now the fire has dwindled to practically nothing, far beyond the point where it could potentially get out of control, and that Tormund has placed Longclaw by Jon’s bedside. It occurs to him that Tormund planned his timing this way on purpose, made sure the room would be ideal for Jon to sleep in despite his heightened senses and constant hypervigilance, so that Jon would be able to get some rest without having to worry about anything. The thought sparks something warm inside him, something that makes him smile a little to himself as he pulls his furs over himself and settles in for what, hopefully, should be a sufficiently restful sleep.

 

It is not.

Jon wakes up screaming, scrambling to free himself from the furs covering him. It’s too hot,  _ it’s too hot _ , he’s burning up, all he can see is fire and it’s everywhere, it’s  _ everywhere _ and he can’t escape it; there’s no way out, and he’s trapped, he’ll die here, he’ll never see his home again-

There is something wrapped vice-like around his upper body, trapping him, and he thrashes, trying to throw it off, whatever it is, whoever it is, and he’s kicking and bucking wildly to no avail-

The arms around him - that’s what they are, arms, and familiar ones at that - tighten, and then Tormund’s voice is in his ear- ‘Jon,  _ Jon _ , listen to me,  _ listen _ -’

When did Tormund get here? Jon’s got to make him leave, he can’t be here, not when everything’s burning down around him, everything is coming crashing down and if he dies, he will  _ not _ take Tormund with him-

‘Will you stop moving so bloody much!’

‘You can’t be here,’ Jon gasps out in response. ‘Tormund, it’s burning, you’ve got to  _ go _ -’

‘Nothing’s burning,’ Tormund interrupts, and he sounds so sure that it gives Jon pause.

‘What-’

‘Nothing’s burning,’ Tormund repeats firmly. His arms are still tight around Jon, though Jon has stopped struggling and is now breathing hard and harsh, like he’s just run the whole length of the Wall without stopping. ‘Look around, little crow,’ instructs Tormund, and despite himself Jon does. ‘What do you see?’

Jon takes a deep breath, and then another, and forces himself to focus, though it’s difficult. The room is dark, and it takes a few moments for his eyes to adjust. It takes a few more for the lack of light to really register, and then Jon lets out a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding, and sags against Tormund, because- ‘There’s no fire,’ he realises, voice hoarse. 

‘It went out a while ago,’ Tormund tells him, cradling his head with one large hand. ‘I let it be because I wanted you to sleep through the night, and you wouldn’t have otherwise. Well - I suppose you didn’t, either way.’

Jon lets his head fall on Tormund’s chest, still breathing hard. His heart is racing under his ribs, rabbit-fast and panicky, but Tormund’s arms around him are steady and unyielding, and Jon can hear Tormund’s heart beat calmly just under his ear. ‘I had a nightmare,’ he murmurs, closing his eyes.

‘So you did,’ Tormund says. His fingers are slowly going through Jon’s hair with uncharacteristic gentleness, untangling the sweat-soaked curls and lifting them from Jon’s equally sweaty neck. ‘It happens to the best of us.’

With the last of his strength Jon kicks off the furs still tangled around his legs, and feels the welcome bite of the cold on his skin through his clothes. Tormund’s hands on him are soothing, strangely enough, lulling him back towards - not sleep, but some semblance of restfulness, and Jon wants nothing more than to just give in.

‘Did I wake you?’ he asks.

‘I wasn’t asleep,’ Tormund answers.

‘Why not?’

Tormund shrugs, and Jon’s body moves along with his. Jon expects him to speak, to say something further, but instead he just shifts, leaning back against the headboard of Jon’s bed. Not for one moment does he let go of Jon, however, and they settle eventually in that position, Tormund sitting with his back to the headboard, and Jon half-sitting, half-lying practically in his lap. It should be awkward; it’s anything but. Besides, thinks Jon, he’s earned this much. He’s not sure how much longer he can go on, denying himself even the basest comforts.

‘Was it dragonfire?’ Tormund asks eventually.

‘Yes,’ Jon tells him. ‘And wildfire, too.’

Tormund hums. Then, ‘Well, no more fucking dragons, and no wildfire up north.’

‘And thank the gods for that,’ Jon mutters fervently.

There is another silence. Tormund’s made what Jon is sure is a frightful mess of his curls, but his fingers don’t stop, and Jon finds he doesn’t really want them to. It feels nice to be comforted, to be held like he’s worth protecting. He can’t remember the last time he felt like this, like he was someone to be cherished and looked after.

‘Tell me something important to you,’ Tormund says.

‘Like what?’

Tormund shrugs again. ‘Dunno. Maybe something from when you were younger. You had a brother your age, right? Tell me about him.’

‘Robb?’ Jon’s so surprised he opens his eyes, tilting his head upwards to look at Tormund in the dim light. The wildling looks totally serious as he looks back at Jon.

‘Yes, him,’ he says. ‘Were you close?’

Jon settles back again and exhales slowly, almost a sigh. ‘Very,’ he says. ‘We did everything together, never left each other’s sides growing up. Used to drive his lady mother mad.’ Jon chuckles, but it’s weary, almost nostalgic. What wouldn’t he give to go back to that time, when things were so much simpler, and life was easier. ‘She never really liked me. Saw me as a stain on her honor, living proof of my father’s infidelity.’

‘Was she cruel?’ Tormund asks quietly.

‘No, not cruel,’ Jon answers. ‘Indifferent, mostly. I don’t blame her for anything, though. I didn’t have a bad childhood, all things considered. I had a father who loved me and siblings who’d do anything for me. Not everyone has that.’

‘Aye,’ agrees Tormund. ‘Were they like you, then, your father and brother?’

‘I suppose Robb and I were like Father,’ Jon says after a moment. ‘In some ways.’

‘What happened to them?’

Jon’s breath catches in his throat. It should be easier to talk about, after all this time. It isn’t. ‘The Lannisters executed Father because he found out the truth about what Cersei and Jaime were doing, and that Joffrey wasn’t King Robert’s son. And Robb was killed in the war that followed. Betrayed by his own men,’ Jon adds bitterly. He can imagine all too well what that must have been like.

‘And his mother?’

‘She died with him.’ Jon’s quiet for a few moments, and then says, voice low, ‘I almost deserted the Watch, when I got news of Father’s death. I planned on riding south, joining Robb, fighting with him. Sam and the others, they stopped me, reminded me of my vows. Sometimes I wonder if things would have been different if I’d gone. If Robb would have lived.’

‘And then you would have died too, most likely,’ Tormund points out.

‘I did that anyway,’ Jon says wryly.

‘Aye, you did, but you returned from the dead,’ Tormund says. ‘Would you have, if you’d been down South?’

‘No,’ Jon replies pensively. ‘Maybe it would have been better that way.’

‘No, it wouldn’t,’ Tormund says at once. ‘You’ve saved so many lives, Jon. This whole sorry kingdom. None of it would have survived without you -- none of us, either, wildlings or Northerners or Southerners,  _ none _ .’

Jon is quiet at that.

‘For once, give yourself some of the damn credit,’ grumbles Tormund.

‘I just… did what I had to,’ Jon says eventually. ‘What had to be done.’

‘That too requires courage, little crow,’ Tormund says. ‘The kind that perhaps not even bravest warrior has, sometimes. And you are one of the bravest I know.’

‘You really believe that.’ Jon’s voice is so quiet it’s almost inaudible even to himself.

Tormund’s arm tightens around Jon just for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he says, sure of himself. ‘Yes, I do. There’s not a lot I believe in anymore, but I’ll always believe in you.’

‘I don’t know if I deserve it,’ Jon admits. He’s not aware of when his hand has closed in Tormund’s furs, but it has, and now he grips them tightly, grounding himself.

‘Then I’ll keep telling you until you believe me,’ Tormund decides. ‘But for now? Sleep. You must be tired.’

Jon considers. ‘And what about you?’

‘Me? I’ll stay with you.’

‘Are you-’

‘Yes, I’m sure,’ Tormund interrupts with a snort. ‘As if you could force me into anything, Jon Snow.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ Jon retorts, grinning a little despite himself. ‘All right then. Thank you.’

Tormund makes a harrumphing sound. ‘Don’t be daft,’ he says shortly. ‘Just shut your mouth - and your eyes - and sleep before I knock you out myself.’

‘Since you’re asking so nicely, I suppose I will,’ Jon tells him, and he’s still smiling when he closes his eyes.

A few seconds later, to his surprise - there seems to be an endless supply of those tonight - Jon feels Tormund press his lips against his hair. The hand that was previously combing through his curls has come to rest around Jon’s waist, so that now Jon is nice and proper in Tormund’s lap, like he is all of three again. But, strangely enough, the way Tormund is holding him does not make him feel like a child. He does not feel small and helpless. He feels safer than he has in longer than he can remember, not from any external forces but from himself, and his demons.

He could get used to this, he thinks sleepily.

 

The morning after should be awkward. If it were anyone else, Jon would be avoiding eye contact while also pretending it didn’t happen. But it’s not anyone else - it’s Tormund, and the man has seen the worst of Jon, and there is no hiding from him, and there is no pretending. The fact that it’s the deepest sleep Jon has had since King’s Landing is definitely a point in his favour, as well.

‘Storm’s dying down,’ is how Tormund greets him when he finally wakes, hiding a yawn behind his hand.

‘Is it?’ he asks sleepily.

Tormund nods. ‘Aye. Now that you’re awake…’ 

‘What?’ Jon asks, but is given an answer when Tormund unceremoniously moves him aside, and then practically jumps off the bed before running off outside. Jon watches him go, nonplussed but too sleepy still to think too much about it. He chooses instead to stretch his arms over his head, and then he yawns once more, and goes over to the basin in the corner and splashes lukewarm water over his face.

Tormund returns just as Jon’s almost finished dressing. ‘Had to piss,’ he explains. ‘For hours.’

Jon laughs. ‘Sorry,’ he says.

‘Don’t be,’ Tormund says gruffly. The look he’s giving Jon is intense, and there is a glint in his eye that it takes Jon a moment to identify. Tormund is giving Jon the same sort of look Jon’s seen him aim at Brienne. For a moment he’s not sure how to respond, and more than that - how to deal with the flush spreading over his body, and, mortifyingly, his face.

‘Right,’ he says, awkwardly, and turns away, burying his face in a washcloth to hide it from the knowing smirk on Tormund’s face.

‘You stubborn fool,’ Tormund says, and  _ that _ is unexpected enough to make Jon look up again.

‘What?’ he says defensively.

‘Nothing,’ Tormund says, sounding both fond and exasperated in a way frighteningly reminiscent of Ygritte. ‘Sleep well, did you?’

Oh, that’s an easy one to answer. ‘Yes,’ Jon replies gratefully. ‘Th-’

‘Told you not to thank me,’ Tormund cuts in. ‘C’mon, now, I’m hungry enough I could eat a horse.’

‘Breakfast, then,’ says Jon, and puts the washcloth down. ‘Is Ghost back yet?’

Tormund shakes his head, looking unconcerned. ‘Not yet, but he will be soon,’ he tells him. ‘Let’s go, then, before I decide I want to take a bite out of  _ you _ .’

‘I wouldn’t taste good,’ Jon tells him with a grin.

‘Come over here and I’ll see for myself,’ Tormund says, and the glint is back in his eye. This time, when Jon flushes, there’s nowhere to hide. Tormund, it seems, is aware of that - his grin widens maddeningly, and for a moment he looks like he’s about to do something that Jon will not know how to deal with, but then he just shakes his head and puts his hand on the small of Jon’s back, nudging him towards the doorway and outside.

 

Tormund spends the rest of the day practically glued to Jon’s side, until it begins to feel like they’re attached at the hip. Though Jon notices the odd looks they receive every time Tormund puts his hand on Jon’s back or on his shoulder, thankfully no one comments, and by the evening even Jon grows used to it. Tormund is probably feeling more protective than usual due to the nightmare of the previous night, and will eventually go back to usual once he’s assured himself that Jon will be fine. Jon finds himself strangely touched by the thought, and catches himself smiling faintly more than once.

Ghost returns just after nightfall, silent as ever, coat and muzzle flecked with dried blood. Jon accepts the thorough licking he receives as a greeting - almost as if Ghost can taste the stale distress on his skin and wants to comfort him - and then leads his wolf inside his chambers, where Tormund is sitting by the fire with a half-empty flask.

‘Drinking already?’ Jon questions, closing the door. Ghost pads quietly into the room and nudges Tormund’s knee with his snout until Tormund scratches him behind the ears.

‘Never a bad time to drink,’ Tormund answers, voice not even a little slurred.

‘Speak for yourself,’ mutters Jon, taking off his outer layers. Ghost is sitting by Tormund’s chair, happily receiving scratches, and Jon smiles at the sight before wetting a spare washcloth in the bowl of water and sitting down at the edge of his bed. ‘Here, boy,’ he calls, and Ghost gets to his feet, going over to Jon. ‘Had a good hunt, huh?’ Jon says, beginning the process of cleaning the blood off the wolf. ‘Found plenty to eat?’

Ghost just looks solemnly at Jon, staying very still so that Jon can easily get the bloodstains out of his fur.

‘You’ll like it up North,’ Jon promises him. ‘Bet there’s more game to be found up there.’

‘Aye, and better too,’ Tormund adds. ‘Everything’s better in the North.’

Jon laughs. ‘That is true enough, I suppose.’

The chair creaks as Tormund gets to his feet, and comes over to sit besides Jon. ‘You’ll feel better there,’ he says quietly, looking so intently at Jon that he squirms a little. ‘About everything.’

‘I hope so,’ Jon answers, turning his face back towards Ghost, who has not taken his eyes off him for even a second.

‘Think of it as the start of something new,’ Tormund advises. ‘Leave everything behind. Start over fresh.’

‘Is it as simple as that?’ Jon asks, hands pausing as he turns back to Tormund.

‘Only if you let it be,’ Tormund breathes, and  _ oh _ , his face is… very close. Inches from Jon’s.

‘Tormund,’ Jon says, but it comes out as a slightly choked whisper. He does not move away.

‘Jon,’ the wildling answers, in the exact same tone, smirking a little.

‘This isn’t just about going North, is it,’ Jon says. It’s not a question.

Tormund answers, anyway. ‘No,’ he says, and then his lips are on Jon’s, and his hands are framing Jon’s face, his body a strong line of warmth against Jon’s.

For a moment Jon is too stunned to respond, even though honestly this is not unexpected at all. But then his brain catches up, and his hands too, and he’s kissing Tormund back, tangling his fingers in the fabric at Tormund’s shoulders, eyes falling closed.

Kissing Tormund is nothing like kissing a woman. There is no softness to his lips, or his hands, or his body, and his beard scratches at Jon’s face with every small movement. His chest is hard and broad under Jon’s hands, and his fingers on Jon’s face are rough and calloused - but his _mouth_. His mouth is gentle, and reassuring, and almost -  _ almost _ \- uncertain, and it sparks something inside Jon he’d thought would never exist again. He tastes like the wine he had just been drinking, and also some of that disgusting brew he favours, and - and something Jon can’t identify, something wild and strong, a bite to it that Jon can only describe as  _ Tormund _ .

They don’t stop until they can’t breathe anymore. Jon’s eyes remain closed as he parts from Tormund, letting his head fall forward until it’s resting on Tormund’s shoulder. Meanwhile Tormund’s hands move from Jon’s face to his shoulders, and then down to his arms, before coming to a rest around his wrists, the hold loose.

‘What was that?’ Jon murmurs.

‘I believe it’s called a kiss,’ Tormund answers, snorting. ‘Ever had one?’

‘Fuck you, I’ve had plenty,’ Jon retorts, not bothering to raise his head.

‘Didn’t seem like it,’ Tormund mutters, and laughs when Jon headbutts him in the shoulder.

‘Fucker,’ Jon says, and opens his eyes. He’s grinning, not even aware of it, and his heart is doing something strange and wild and inexplicable inside his chest.

‘I’m willing to help you practice till you get it right,’ Tormund offers, and he’s grinning too.

‘Very generous,’ Jon teases. ‘You tell that to all the women?’

‘Some,’ Tormund says lightly. 'And some men, too.'  


‘And it works?’ Jon asks in disbelief.

‘Not always,’ Tormund admits.

It’s Jon’s turn to laugh. ‘Well, it is a shit line,’ he says.

‘Do you want to kiss me again?’ Tormund asks bluntly.

Instead of replying, Jon - ignoring how his face flushes at Tormund’s candour - leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of Tormund’s mouth. ‘Maybe,’ he says, even though it contradicts what he’s just done.

‘Then it works on you, too,’ Tormund informs Jon, completely serious.

‘Did it work on the bear?’ Jon asks.

‘The bear couldn’t talk, dimwit,’ Tormund retorts, and leans in to kiss Jon again.

Jon kisses back immediately this time, chest feeling so light he almost thinks he could float away, heart racing under his ribs, and he is hyperaware of every point where Tormund’s body is touching his, of his hands around Jon’s wrists, and his chest against Jon’s-

And the slightly wet thing nudging Jon’s knee.

Jon pulls away and looks down to find Ghost nuzzling at his knee and looking expectantly up at him, coat only half-clean. The washcloth is lying somewhere by his front paws, having been dropped in Jon’s initial shock at being kissed.

‘All right, Ghost, message received,’ he grumbles, annoyed at the interruption.

Tormund grins. ‘Next time you finish with the wolf first, little crow,’ he says.

‘Next time we don’t do it in front of Ghost,’ Jon corrects, picking up the washcloth and rubbing it against Ghost’s bloody muzzle. ‘It’s like kissing in front of your children.’

‘And what’s wrong with that?’ Tormund inquires. ‘And if you say it isn’t  _ proper-’ _

‘I wasn’t going to!’ Jon protests, though he was.

Tormund snorts. ‘Of course you weren’t.’

There is a charged silence for a few minutes. Jon keeps his eyes focussed on Ghost, and pretends that Tormund’s gaze on him is not making him go red from head to toe. Tormund, for his part, does not stop looking, not even for a second, until Jon’s done with Ghost and the wolf has padded over to curl up in front of the fire.

‘Don’t get too close to the fire,’ Jon calls across the room.

Ghost raises his head to blink at Jon, but obediently takes a step back until Jon is satisfied.

‘He’s a fully direwolf, Jon, not an infant,’ Tormund points out.

‘I worry, anyway,’ Jon replies. He tosses the washcloth back to the floor - he’ll pick it up later - and then kicks off his boots, turning so that he’s sitting facing Tormund. ‘So,’ he says, more casually than he feels, ‘what now?’

‘What do you mean?’ Tormund asks.

‘I mean-’ Jon waves a hand between the two of them. ‘Me, and you. Us.’

‘What about it?’

Jon sighs. This conversation is not going how he planned it in his head while he’d been cleaning Ghost up. ‘What even is it?’ he asks.

Tormund shrugs. ‘Well, I don’t know what Southerners call it, but-’

‘I mean, what are we doing?’ Jon interjects.

‘Whatever you want to be doing,’ Tormund answers. ‘I mean that,’ he adds in response to Jon’s expression. ‘If you want to continue, we will. If you don’t, that’ll be the end of it.’

‘No, I - I want to,’ Jon says, and his own heart stutters at the revelation. He didn’t think he ever could, after Daenerys. He didn’t think he deserved to. But Tormund has got a way of subverting every single thought he has, even the ones where he's not kind to himself. Perhaps especially those ones.  


‘Are you sure?’ Tormund asks.

‘Yes,’ Jon says, clear and confident. ‘I - yes, Tormund.’

‘All right,’ Tormund says. ‘As for your question, little crow - the answer is whatever you want it to be. Whatever you feel ready for.’

‘If it’s sex you want, you might be waiting for a long time,’ Jon warns.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Tormund replies.

‘It might not ever happen.’ That is a distinct possibility, one Jon does not want to consider but cannot, for transparency’s sake, ignore.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Tormund repeats, a little more insistently this time. ‘Jon - you are important to me. What you want is important to me. I don’t care if I never kiss you again, if that’s what you want.’

‘Already said it’s not,’ Jon points out, with a little smile.

Tormund grins back. ‘That’s good,’ he says, and leans in again.

This time when he kisses Jon, it’s harder, more insistent, and much, much more physical - his body presses into Jon’s until he’s lying on his back, Tormund half on top of him, and their hands are everywhere, and Tormund’s body is heavy on Jon’s, grounding him, anchoring him to the moment, and throughout it all they don’t stop kissing.

‘Is it weird if Ghost is in the room?’ Jon asks when they break apart for air.

‘He’s already asleep,’ Tormund points out, and sure enough, when Jon raises his head a little to see for himself, he finds the wolf sound asleep, stretched out in front of the fire, paws twitching as he chases rabbits in his dreams.

‘Okay, that’s - that’s fine, then,’ Jon says, and then stops short - he can feel the hard outline of Tormund’s cock against his hip, and Tormund is breathing rather heavily right next to his ear. ‘You’re hard,’ he says, rather redundantly.

Tormund moves up and backwards so that he’s sitting up. ‘Yes, but it’s nothing I can’t deal with myself,’ he says. ‘You don’t have to-’

Jon bites his lip, considers the situation at hand, and then almost immediately arrives at a conclusion. ‘I want to,’ he says, quickly. A bit  _ too _ quickly, going by Tormund’s snort of amusement. ‘I’m sure,’ he adds before Tormund can ask.

Instead of replying with words, Tormund moves forward again, hands tugging insistently at the front of Jon’s trousers, and then there is no more talking at all.

 

The first thing Jon realises when he wakes is that he’s naked. The second is that he is not cold. The third is the snoring in his ear, and the rough scratching of Tormund’s beard on the back of his neck.

The events of the previous night return to him in a rush of memories and sensation, and Jon feels his body light up. He closes his eyes against the sensation of goosebumps on his skin, his face and chest feeling hot. He has no doubt that if he were to glance at himself in a mirror right now, he would find himself red all over, with bruises and lovebites adorning his skin in haphazard patterns.  


Tormund’s arm is heavy around his waist, his chest rising and falling with each breath against Jon’s back. He still seems sound asleep, going by the snoring. Jon opens his eyes again, searches for Ghost, and finds the room empty. The door is bolted; Jon assumes that means the wolf left at dawn, and Tormund probably locked up after him before returning to bed. It astonishes Jon that none of this woke him up, when previously the slightest noise from a mile away could have roused him.

He settles once more, letting his body relax against Tormund’s. It’s still snowing outside, but the storm seems much calmer than even the previous day, and Jon can see a sliver of sunlight falling into the chambers from the window. Just a few more days - less than a week - and it’ll be time to leave. Perhaps for good. Probably, in fact,  _ definitely _ for good, and Jon is not sure whether he will ever see Castle Black again. He wonders if he will miss it.

He will miss Winterfell, though, with its towers and crenellations. He will miss every old brick of the castle, every stone in the courtyard, every shadowy corner of it. The thought makes his heart ache, bittersweet and nostalgic. Jon closes his eyes, and takes a few minutes to visualise the old castle in his imagination, the halls and rooms and furniture, the yard and greenhouses and stables - and then he opens his eyes, and lets go of it all.

Winterfell is the home where he grew up, but it’s not his only home. He is no longer the sheltered child of those years, playing with Robb at glorified battles and immortalised knights. He is older now, and world-weary and tired, and what his soul yearns for now is a new beginning. A second chance.

A fresh start.

For the first time, Jon lets himself believe that he can be happy. That he deserves to be a little selfish for once, to seek comfort and love, and to accept it when he finds it. Or rather, in this case, when it finds _him_. He’s still not sure that he is everything that Tormund and the free folk believe he is, but he is willing to find out. To go North with them, and see where it leads him, see where his life takes him.

Tormund snorts in his sleep, and then makes a snuffling sound just before he shifts, the arm around Jon’s waist tightening just a little. Jon smiles, and puts his own hand over Tormund’s, lacing their fingers together and letting their joined hands rest on his belly.

‘Go back t’sleep,’ Tormund mutters, sounding mostly asleep himself.

‘Yes,’ Jon whispers back, and closes his eyes.

 

Five days later, they leave for the North. Jon pauses and turns in his saddle, looks back at the Wall and Castle Black. He expects to miss it, expects to find some sort of sadness within himself at the prospect of perhaps never returning - and doesn’t. There is only cold relief in his chest. Maybe it will hit him later, but for now, there is nothing but a feeling he hasn’t felt in so long that it takes him a while to identify.

Excitement.

He feels his lips lift in a small smile. Winterfell was his home, and then it was Castle Black, and then Winterfell again, and then Castle Black again, and now-

Jon turns forward again, and urges his horse forward, eyes on the red of Tormund’s hair a few yards in front of him. A new beginning, a new home.

He is of the North, the true North, and it’s finally time to listen to its call.

**Author's Note:**

> sooo there it is, about 6k words longer than originally planned. these things do have a way of getting out of hand but hey, i'm not complaining. please leave a comment if you enjoyed it!
> 
> my tumblr is [here](http://chesterbennington.co.vu); please drop by anytime and yell at me about jonmund asdfgfds
> 
> love,  
> remy x


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